


The Uncommon Haunting

by HardlyFair



Series: A Year in 6000 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale’s Bookshop, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Haunting, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intricate Rituals, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sentient Bookshop, but not really a haunting at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardlyFair/pseuds/HardlyFair
Summary: — London, England. December, 1835 —“The shop’s been…?”Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It’s been… ill. I think. I believe.”“I don’t think shops can get ill. Why do you think the shop’s ill?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Year in 6000 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1460989
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	The Uncommon Haunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley thinks he knows what's going on.

> _— London, England. December, 1835 —_

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure when it began - but he knew when it stopped. It was early December; the same time of year that the bakery downtown began selling its seasonal pastries. The scent of honey and sugar glaze and delicate floury-flakes poured from every side street, sweeping up Soho, while the dusting of snow on rooftops and holiday lanterns glittered under the light of a thousand blessed candles. 

But the scenery was beside the point. 

The _point_ _was_ that the bookshop had been acting strange for the last few months. Through the summer it had been awful, and in the autumn it only revved up, and now that the year was coming to an end, the shop seemed stuck in petulantly-bad behavior. 

The bookshop had always acted strange to a certain degree, at least to an outsider's perspective. Aziraphale could recognize and delight that having little to no customers year-round made humans wary of the shop, and in his downtime he wondered how to extend this affect to any passing angels.

Humans were cautious after they braved a visit as well. Odd creaks sounded beneath every footstep, and the door to the backroom slammed closed on its own. The windows grew covered with brown dust so heavily that Aziraphale struggled to open them. The building itself was only several dozen years old and Aziraphale had occupied it the entire time it had been standing, and while it sometimes settled on its foundation or the heating cracked through walls, its age was not enough to explain the strange behavior. 

When he took his breakfast at his writing desk, the house groaned and there was tapping at the windows, and the velveteen curtains swayed to brush up against Aziraphale as he walked by. When he shelved books in random order, they spilled out onto the floor the second he turned his back. Once, in a moment of weakness, he tried pinning a false warning flyer about some mold to the outer wall, and the wall lurched away from his touch. 

The strangeness was mildly alarming. Had the said strangeness done anything worse than spook off a paranoid customer or two (or three hundred and twenty-one in the last few months, but who was keeping count?), Aziraphale would've taken up arms against it. Just a week ago, a young student had nearly burst into tears when she thought Aziraphale had thrown a book at her, and the same day, a chair had scooted itself away from a customer's legs just as he was sitting down to read, and the man had ended sprawled out on the floor with his cane and top hat knocked off in the scuffle. 

These happenings were occurring more frequently and to a greater severity as time went on, and Aziraphale did not want to end up in the paper for anything, especially the kind of thing that would attract curious people. Those sorts were the hardest to miracle away. 

Clearly, something was happening with the shop. If it was going to keep aggravating Aziraphale and throwing priceless books onto the floor, it had to go. Aziraphale had burnt cedar, had put on his robes and chanted, had read the third, fourth, and ninth chapters of the Bhagavad Gita, had offered incentives to get anything inside the shop to leave, and absolutely nothing had happened so far in response. Things remained the same. Last night, the rugs had all been rolled up and stuffed into a corner and the floorboards had growled at him as much as floorboards could growl. 

Crowley was a demon and clever to boot: he was in tune with things that Aziraphale may miss. Perhaps he held a solution, because Aziraphale was at his wits' end. 

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have opened up a library,” said Crowley, kicking his feet up onto Aziraphale’s padded footrest. He sunk deeper into his armchair, long legs stretching out and head lolling back contentedly. “Then you wouldn’t be so worried about people buying your things.”

“I’m not worried,” Aziraphale replied. A library would entail people taking his books, using them, and then bringing them back. People might eat or drink while reading books - including himself, but he was extremely careful - and Aziraphale was mortified at the idea of receiving a stained mess of pages after lending out a first edition. At the thought, he bitterly scowled into his teacup as he replaced it in its saucer. 

Crowley looked at him. His short red curls, usually pinned and hidden beneath a tall black hat, were fuzzy and smashed against leather. After swirling a dark cherry wine in his crystal glass, Crowley inspected its legs, and Aziraphale watched him carefully consider red droplets sliding back to the bottom of the glass. “I haven’t seen a person in here besides you for months.”

“You’re not here all the time.”

“That’s not my point. You’re scaring them all off.”

Aziraphale glanced towards the door. This afternoon they were sitting in the backroom, carefully holed up against the cold in armchairs that sat beside a hearth glowing with orange embers, which betrayed how much of the day they had wasted here, neither of them having gotten up to retrieve a new log in a long while. Between them on the dusty carpet sat a metal tray of red and white biscuits, and an empty bottle of sweet red wine. Crowley had drained most of it, and Aziraphale had encouraged him, sipping chamomile from a teacup in a hand-painted saucer. 

From the other room, something rumbled. To an untrained ear, it could have sounded like a carriage-horse sliding against the walk in the snow, but Aziraphale knew better. The rumbling was minor and only lasted a heartbeat, but it was enough to push Aziraphale to his limit. He’d been fending off odd noises and happenings for months. He was desperate for advice, and the noise made Aziraphale remember why he'd called Crowley here. They'd been in such enriching conversation about Aziraphale's collection and what Hell was up to that he'd most forgotten. The _most_ distracting thing had been Crowley's full-hearted laugh and the way he'd tilt his face up when he tried to suppress a spurt of giggles. 

“Can I tell you something, Crowley?”

Crowley groaned, sharp elbows digging into the soft leather armrests as he shoved himself upright, “If this is about a certain Charles Darwin arriving in the Galapagos, you know I didn’t have anything to do with that. Directly.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to interrogate Crowley over business. “No, it isn’t—”

“Alright, fine, I did make him name the boat after a dog—”

“Crowley—”

“But it was funny! It was funny and that’s my defense!”

“It’s not about Charles Darwin, although if he comes up with any ideas that derail the current belief systems, I’m going to get into trouble.”

“Not like he’ll come up with anything _correct_ ,” said Crowley. He paused, and his lip twitched, his voice dropping lower. “What is this about?”

A distant door slammed open and shut, open and shut.

Crowley blinked lazily, peering at Aziraphale from behind the sheen of his glasses, light brushing him orange. The warmth of the fire made his cheeks red - he looked like an autumn day caught up in the snow, and Aziraphale forced his gaze away, breath caught. “There’s your customer. Holiday shopping?”

“I’ll check.” Aziraphale said tightly, and stood and dusted off his waistcoat, in need of a short walk or a brisk wind. “It may be that pesky draft again.” 

“You haven’t had an open window in years, where is there a draft coming from?”

Aziraphale waved Crowley off and replaced his hat atop his head despite his certainty that no human had entered the shop. He exited the backroom, leaving Crowley to spring up, stumble, and then pluck a new bottle of wine from the wall. He carefully shut the door behind him. 

As expected, there was no one in the shop. Nothing but rows of volumes on shelves and novels piled haphazardly atop three-legged, wobbly tables. Aziraphale checked the front door carefully, touching the handle, but it was as locked as it had been since Crowley waltzed in. Outside in the dim, carriages with horses adorned in ringing bells filled the streets as humans went calmly about London in the snow. The sun had sunk behind the city, and now large shadows cast across the street, and the lanterns were being lit by a man in a thick shawl. 

And a small bunch of beautiful holly sat above the front door like nothing was the matter and it had a right to be there. Aziraphale knew he hadn't placed that decor. Jagged green leaves twitched, even though Crowley was correct and there was no draft in the shop. 

Enough of this! If the rumblings and the door-slammings were to keep up, the structural integrity of the whole bookshop would be damaged! Aziraphale had had enough of shelving and re-shelving when there wasn't meant to be anything to re-shelve. He didn't mind plants in the slightest, if they grew in pots; this mysterious holly, however, symbolized a threat to his routine. 

In frustration, he reached for the leaves, but they slipped quickly back into a crack in the frame like a mouse from a cat. 

Aziraphale picked up a candelabra from the window display and lit it without thinking. He held it up high, investigating the crack that the leaves disappeared into, and saw nothing but splinters of wood. The shadows didn't tell him a thing. 

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't imagine the idea of the bookshop being overrun by malicious bookshelves and rugs that pulled themselves out from beneath people's feet. He returned to Crowley, ready to ask for advice. 

Aziraphale pushed open the door with one hand, still gripping the light in his other, and stopped, surprised at what greeted him. Their armchairs were now very close together, even though one was occupied. There had been a few feet of space between them, but now the tray of biscuits had been cast off to sit before the fireplace while Crowley and Aziraphale’s chairs were almost touching. 

From the doorway, Aziraphale eyed Crowley skeptically. “Did you move my chair?” 

Crowley lounged over his armrest, spine bending unnaturally. His glasses slipped off his face and onto the carpet, revealing his confused, drunken squint. After a moment, he smacked his tongue and answered, “Nope. Did you move your chair?”

"No." There was a fold caught in the carpet beneath a peg of Aziraphale’s armchair. It had been dragged, it seemed like, but Crowley wasn’t so bold and was currently too tipsy to manufacture anything like that. If he'd wanted to move a chair, he would've done it without physical effort. 

Aziraphale set the candelabra on a side table and stooped down to one knee to unfold the carpet, already exhausted despite the early hour. It wouldn’t do if this Persian masterpiece creased permanently. Carefully, he lifted the leg of the armchair and pulled the carpet out from under it, then smoothed it down with a flat palm for good measure. 

“What were you saying before?” asked Crowley. 

“I can’t recall.

“Hm.”

“I really don’t remember.” 

“Alright.” 

Aziraphale stood up abruptly and settled his hands on his hips. “Don’t you usually nag more?”

“Maybe I’m getting tired. I don’t know, the days are short and it’s cold. Stoke the fire.”

“ _You_ stoke the fire!”

Lazily, Crowley snapped his fingers and a dry log dropped onto the coals, and was quickly set upon by little yellow flames. Next, he maneuvered a little more backwards over his armrest, reaching out to grapple for his glasses on the carpet, and caught the temples with one finger. “I’m only saying, if you wanted to tell me something you could tell me.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale seriously, then replaced his glasses over the ridge of his nose, and they were so crooked that Aziraphale couldn't help feeling a little of his worry drain away.

"It's—!" Aziraphale broke off. He drew a deep breath, trying to relax. It would do no one any good if he were to shout at Crowley out of pure frustration, not to mention the fact that Crowley had done nothing to deserve it besides offer Aziraphale someone to confide in. He'd offer _help_ , for Heaven's sake! He'd offer help despite anything; it was one of Crowley's most terrible habits, and taking him up on it was one of Aziraphale's. “If you must know, the bookshop has been…” 

Lord, how to phrase this? Crowley’s brows edged higher above the rims of his glasses the longer Aziraphale went silent. 

“The shop’s been…?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It’s been… ill. I think. I believe.”

“Ill. Your bookshop is ill. Aziraphale, you can put up a sign for regular hours and people will come in.”

“Not ill like that! I don’t need anyone traipsing around while the shop is ill!” 

The demon grinned, thinking a joke of it all. “I don’t think shops can get ill. Why do you think the shop’s ill?”

Aziraphale sunk into his chair, tipping his chin up to stare at the ceiling. A crack appeared in the wood at the corner, then retreated when he frowned at it. "Sober up," he said, "I'll tell you all about it."

Crowley sat forward and leaned his elbows onto his knees, not smiling anymore. "Is it serious?"

He wasn't sure. Nothing particularly _bad_ had happened, but there were still _problems_ that warranted a fix. The noises, for one; the shivering shelves and the books that threw themselves for another! Could it be that Aziraphale had accidentally picked up a cursed book in his recent travels to the Americas? But that was years ago, and this was a problem that had surfaced in the last few months. Something with a delayed reaction, perhaps?

Beside him, Crowley shivered violently, fingers curling in discomfort as he suddenly became sober. By the expression of bewilderment and the crease between his eyes, he did not like it very much. Still, Crowley rolled his shoulders, sucking in his teeth to make a low hissing sound and blinking hard, clearly trying to focus. It warmed Aziraphale, thinking how he'd only had to ask gently for Crowley to understand. 

"Hangover?" Aziraphale prompted with sympathy.

"Nasty business," said Crowley, rubbing the back of his neck. He cleared his throat twice and his voice came out even, "Now. This - this sounded much funnier when I was drunk. Why do you think your shop is ill?"

Aziraphale jumped into explanation without another delay, anxiety pouring into his words. "It's making all these sounds when there's no one there, and the walls move, and the shelves throw my books off of them!"

Crowley believed him at once. "That does sound serious."

"Some of these books are ancient, I can't have them being tossed around like they're reprints!" Aziraphale gestured grandly to the few shelves that surrounded them in the cozy backroom. Each book, very old and very dear to him, was placed carefully exactly where Aziraphale knew it was supposed to go. 

"Have you tried glue?"

"I've tried _miracles_ , Crowley. Nothing gets rid of it. I know it must be connected to whatever is moving my furniture around, and I tell you, it isn't welcome. The door earlier, you heard it, that wasn't any human, that was whatever is in the shop!"

Thoughtfully, Crowley pressed a fist to his chin. "Or, whomever." 

"Pardon me?"

"Well, it could be a _person_ rather than a thing or an event."

"There's no one besides me in the shop. Dear boy, you've said it yourself, you've only seen me in here for years!"

"You said something, too - I'm not here all the time." A muscle in Crowley's jaw jumped, betraying his agitation. 

Aziraphale softened. He leaned closer, settling his hand on Crowley's chair to ease him, the old leather sighing as he shifted his weight. "Oh, come now, I didn't mean anything by that."

Crowley swallowed visibly, the tendons in his lean neck flexing as he straightened. My, was it getting hot in here? Aziraphale glanced to the fire, but it looked as meek as it had been all afternoon and evening. Perhaps it was his touch on Crowley's armrest. Aziraphale pulled away, bringing his hand to his forehead to test the heat and finding nothing outwardly wrong.

He said, "I don't know why there would be anyone besides me in here. I would've been able to tell if a human or angel were here."

"It doesn't have to be a human, it could be whatever's left of one."

Perplexed, Aziraphale frowned. "What do you mean?" It wasn't possible that someone from Hell had infiltrated his shop, was it? Crowley was here, but Crowley would never do a thing to Aziraphale or his books. They knew each other better than that by now, and Aziraphale couldn't find it in his heart to assume that Crowley would do anything to endanger the shop. There wasn't any doubt in him on that front. 

"I mean, there could be a _ghost._ "

**Author's Note:**

> a holiday fic for these holiday times. I usually hyper-edit and sit on a fic for weeks if not MONTHS before finishing and posting it, so I had to challenge myself to write this and publish it in less than a few days. Shorter than I usually like BUT plenty of banter! Happy holidays!!  
> I saw that, while there plenty of sentient!Bentley fics, we were collectively leaving out Aziraphale's bookshop. Chapter Two coming in a week or so.  
> PS much like my other fic in this series, you will not be able to count the insane number of intricate rituals by the time this is over. Leave a comment and I love you all!  
> And! keep an eye out for my GOBB fic coming 1/25/20! It's massive at 20k words!


End file.
